


Just Looking For A Home

by cuttooth



Series: This Must Be The Place [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 3 Weeks Fic, And lots of hand holding, But Mostly Comfort, Canon-typical cows, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Some sadness, Things aren't perfect, but they're together, set between 159 and 160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:21:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23176861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: For all the dark secrets and eldritch knowledge the Beholding gifts its Archivist, it very rarely bestows any practical information. Which is a pity, because Jon could use a crash course in What To Do When There’s A Cow In Your Kitchen right about now.*They reach the safe house; they get a visitor.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: This Must Be The Place [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1666135
Comments: 55
Kudos: 509





	Just Looking For A Home

**Author's Note:**

> Since the last interlude fic I wrote didn't even get them to the safe house, I had to follow it up. This touches on Martin's complicated feelings about his mother, as well as Jon's feeding, but not in detail as the characters aren't quite ready to deal with those things yet. Also, there are cows.

_“I’m just an animal looking for a home and_  
_Share the same space for a minute or two”_  
Talking Heads – This Must Be The Place (Naïve Melody)

Jon sees them first. 

They’ve been walking for the better part of an hour since the bus dropped them off, following the directions Basira gave them. The road they're on has gradually narrowed to a path and now a trail, winding relentlessly uphill until they're both huffing with exertion, their breath steaming in the cold air. 

Jon’s lungs are burning and his legs are starting to get a bit wobbly; he’s trying to think of the last time he had something you’d call proper exercise. It feels good, though, out here, the breeze chapping his cheeks and tossing his hair into his eyes. He feels healthier, _realer,_ than he has in a long time. 

“You’re sure this isn’t all an elaborate practical joke, right?” Martin says, pausing for a moment to catch his breath.

“Basira wouldn’t do that,” Jon says, stopping as well. He thinks for a moment, then adds: “Probably.”

He looks around at the rolling landscape, hands on his hips as he breathes hard. Perhaps a quarter of a mile away he spots a collection of large, shaggy shapes. Most are grazing with their heads down, but a couple are looking in their direction. There are, he notices, no fences or walls in between. 

“No need to be alarmed,” he tells Martin quietly, “But there’s a herd of cows over there.”

“Where?” Martin asks, his head whipping around, then: “Oh, highland cows!” He sounds rather more thrilled than concerned.

“I wonder where they escaped from?” There must be a farm nearby. Martin gives him a wry smile.

“Escaped? I, uh, I think they live here, Jon.” 

“Well, yes, but surely they’re not supposed to be just…” Jon waves an arm. “Wandering about. Shouldn’t they be in a field or something?”

Martin gazes around at the expanse of open land surrounding them, his expression bemused. Jon feels his face heating.

“I mean a - a fenced in field. For safety.”

“They’re _cows,_ Jon.”

“They’re large, unpredictable animals, _Martin,_ ” Jon insists. “They kill more people per year than sharks.” He’s not sure if that’s something he already knew or something he’s just _known,_ and he tries not to worry about it.

“Well,” Martin teases. “They don’t seem too hungry for human flesh right now, so let’s leave them to it, yeah? We just won’t go near them.”

Jon gives the cows a last dubious look as they continue on their way. One of them shakes its hairy, long-horned head and lows hoarsely after them. 

*

The safe house, when they finally reach it, is neither small nor picturesque enough to be a cottage, its weather beaten facade streaked with moss. Jon finds the key where Basira said they would: three bricks up and seven in from the back left cornerstone. 

The interior is clean, if a little dusty. Downstairs there’s a kitchen with a wood-burning range, a small storage room, and a living room that's furnished with a battered sofa and a couple of mismatched chairs. Under the floor rug, Jon _knows,_ is a hatch containing several illegally obtained firearms and a lot of ammunition. He decides not to mention that to Martin for now. The storage room has a door leading down to the cellar, which is dry and cool, with firewood neatly stacked along one wall and boxes of supplies along the other: tinned and dried food; blankets and coils of rope; toilet paper and toothpaste and soap. 

“Looks like Daisy was ready for anything,” Jon says. Martin snorts.

“Looks like a doomsday prepper’s bunker.” 

Upstairs is a bathroom, a bedroom, and a room that’s unfurnished but for a large table and corkboard on the walls. Some sort of workroom, Jon thinks, then hurriedly thinks about something else before he _knows_ just what kind of work Daisy might have done in here. 

“Not much on creature comforts, is it?” Martin says in the bedroom, eyeing the worn metal bed frame and sagging mattress. Jon smiles and cups a hand to the back of his neck, because he can.

“I’m sure we’ll manage.”

They find sheets and a faintly musty duvet in the airing cupboard, and make up the bed. Jon spares a moment to be glad they figured out the whole “sharing a bed” situation before they got here. He gets a little thrill at the knowledge that he doesn’t even need to ask which side of the bed Martin prefers; there’s a mundane intimacy to it that makes his heart ache.

That evening they curl up on the sofa with blankets piled around them, drinking tea and eating slightly squashed sandwiches from the village service station. Martin's figured out that the kitchen stove powers the immersion heater that heats water for washing as well as the radiators, and he’s set a fire in the living room hearth to chase away the chill of long vacancy. 

“Sorry this isn’t much of a dinner,” Jon says. He’s not hungry himself, or rather he is, but not in a way that can be satisfied by a cheese and Branston pickle sandwich. Martin shrugs as he finishes the last bite of his BLT. 

“It’s not peaches from a tin,” he says. Jon winces slightly at the reminder, and Martin pats his leg. “I had sandwiches for dinner plenty of times when I was small, when my mum was too ill to cook. This is good. Homey.”

Jon hears the brittle note in Martin’s voice when he mentions his mother, the tension he tries to breeze past. It comes through like a crack in a bell, and Jon considers whether he should just leave it alone, but when it comes to Martin’s pain he knows he can’t. 

“We...haven’t talked about your mother at all,” he says carefully. “Do you want to?”

“I don’t think so,” Martin replies quickly. His expression closes into something cautious and distant that makes Jon’s stomach drop. “Not yet, anyway.” 

“That’s fine,” Jon tells him, keeping his tone neutral. “Whatever you want.”

He takes Martin’s hand in his, rubbing his thumb over the knuckles, until he feels Martin relax again. They talk about meaningless things for the rest of the evening, stepping carefully around anything that might catch and sting. When they go to bed, Martin wraps his arms around Jon’s waist and tucks his head against his shoulder, breathing into the hollow of his throat. Jon pulls him close, tangles their legs together and holds him tight as he can until they fall asleep. 

*

The next day they walk down to the village to stock up on supplies, because Martin is adamant he is not going to subsist on baked beans and tapioca pudding. 

“I can go on my own,” Martin suggests while they’re getting their shoes on. “If you're tired. It’s a bit of a trek.” Jon sees the unspoken worry in his eyes: _what if they come across someone with a statement?_ He hasn’t felt that deep, savage craving since they returned from the Lonely - the hunger has been manageable, easy to ignore - but he knows it’s likely just a matter of time. Love is a bolster, not a cure. 

“I want to come,” he says, and they both know he means he’s not letting Martin go alone. Not when too many people in a room still makes him startle and shrink, fighting the urge to fade into the background. Not after last night. Jon isn’t sure how long he’ll be able to safely be around people, but he’ll stay at Martin’s side while he can. 

“Okay,” says Martin, and reaches over to squeeze his shoulder. “It’ll be nice.”

The trek doesn’t feel as long downhill as it did up, though it’s colder today, the sky heavy with clouds and the wind whipping at their hair. They pass the cows again, closer to the path this time, and Martin insists on stopping for a minute to look at them. There is something charming about the creatures, Jon can admit, though he’s still a little leery of being too near them. Closer, the size of them is even more apparent. 

“Look!” Martin says, pointing. “There’s a calf!” 

There _is_ a calf, small and brown, picking around the larger cows on stocky little legs, its tail flicking inexpertly. Its presumable mother heads it off when it looks to stray too far, nudging at it gently with her large, square nose. 

“That’s rather sweet,” says Jon, turning to Martin, who is gazing, enthralled, at the small creature. 

“I thought they only had calves in the spring,” Martin breathes, in a tone that says he’s been witness to a veritable miracle. Jon can’t keep the smile off his face. 

“They can calf all year round,” he says. “Most farmers try to time it in the spring or early summer, but late calving isn’t uncommon up in the highlands.”

“Did you just _know_ that?” Martin has turned his attention from the calf and wiggles his fingers dramatically at Jon, who sighs. 

“I suppose I did. I’ve been trying not to, but it’s still sort of...leaking through.”

“Makes you sound like an old shed in the rain,” Martin snorts, and Jon laughs despite himself. “It’s all right. I still love you, leaky shed or not.”

They leave the cows behind and walk hand in hand the rest of the way to the village. As they approach the outskirts Jon considers whether he should let go. Not that he’s concerned about their reception, but they don’t want to attract any more attention than necessary, and he already stands out enough, scarred and battered as he is. Martin’s grip only tightens as they get closer, however, and that makes Jon’s decision for him; he hangs on. 

The local grocery, which is also a post office, is surprisingly well stocked with fresh vegetables and eggs and milk from nearby farms; they find sugar and flour, rice and pasta, and even a few basic spices. The woman behind the counter tells them there’s a Tesco in the next town, about fifteen miles away, if they need more variety in their shopping.

“Oh, we don’t have a car,” Martin tells her. “We got the bus from Edinburgh, and otherwise we’re walking.”

“Well watch out for the weather, then,” she warns. “There’s rain coming in, and it looks to be heavy.”

Martin thanks her and says that they’ll be careful, and Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing him say _“we”_. As if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, the two of them together. As if it's simply the way things are supposed to be.

Outside the shop, Martin stops to admire the old-fashioned phone box, and then insists they buy a haggis at the butcher’s. Jon’s never cooked haggis before, but he has the vague impression that you’re supposed to boil it? He’ll figure it out, in any case, because Martin looks so delighted at the idea. Delighted enough by the phone box and the haggis and the rowing boat full of perennials in the village center that some of the tension has drained from his face, leaving him less strained and wan. 

For his part, Jon keeps his gaze on the shelves, on the ground, on anything that isn’t the people around them. It doesn’t stop him from _knowing_ when a woman passes them with a statement, the awareness so sharp he can almost taste it, bitter and metallic on his tongue . He can’t tell what kind of statement it is; he just feels a pull like gravity, a craving to turn and _see_ and open his mouth and - 

Martin’s hand squeezes his, hard, and Jon looks up into worried eyes. He realizes he’s tensed up from toes to shoulders, and forces himself to relax, keeping his eyes carefully on Martin. 

“I think we have everything we need,” Martin says, squeezing more gently this time. “Let’s go home, yeah?”

It occurs to Jon on the walk back, beneath the darkening clouds, that perhaps Martin hadn’t been holding his hand for his own comfort. He doesn’t ask, and Martin doesn’t say anything, but he’s glad of the warmth of Martin’s palm against his. 

*

When it rains, it pours. The sky grows darker and more ominous for the next few hours, the wind picking up until it’s rattling across the roof tiles. Around tea time the heavens finally open. Jon is in the kitchen when it starts, prodding at the steaming haggis to figure out if it’s cooked; he sees the first drops spatter across the window, and within moments it’s coming down in sheets. 

“It’s raining!” Martin calls from the other room. 

“Yes, I noticed!” Jon calls back, smiling to himself as he serves up the haggis with gravy and roast potatoes - because they don’t have a ricer and he can’t abide lumpy mash - and carries the plates into the living room. Martin flourishes the bottle of red wine he thought he’d sneaked into their shopping without Jon noticing. He pretends to be appropriately surprised, enjoying how pleased Martin looks. The haggis turns out to be quite tasty, hot and peppery, and Jon surprises himself by going in for a second helping. 

After dinner they curl up together on the sofa, finishing the last of the wine. The fire is crackling in the hearth, and Jon feels warm and utterly content. He’s close to dozing off when Martin shifts against him.

“Right, I’ll do the washing up before we fall asleep here.” He gets up and starts collecting plates, and Jon gives a groan.

“It’s fine, leave it until the morning.”

“No point getting into bad habits,” Martin insists. “Besides, there might be mice.”

“All right, I’ll give you a hand, then.” Jon begins to rouse himself, but Martin stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“You cooked,” he says firmly. “I’ll wash up. That’s how it works.”

Jon makes a token protest, then gives up and lets Martin take the remains of their meal into the other room. He slides back against the couch cushions, listening to the sounds of water running and cutlery clattering against the sink. Small, domestic sounds. 

Then suddenly, Martin’s voice, high and urgent.

“Jon! There’s something outside!”

Jon’s heartbeat races at the alarm in his tone, and he’s on his feet in an instant. Could it be Daisy? El- _Jonah?_ Something even worse? In the kitchen Martin is peering through the window, face almost pressed against the glass, and Jon puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Where?” he demands. Martin frowns. 

“It went past the window. Low to the ground. I don’t see it now - it was probably nothing. Jumping at shadows.”

Jon shakes his head; they both know better than to dismiss shadows. He strains his eyes through the rain and the gloom, looking for any movement, anything that doesn’t belong. But there's nothing and nothing and nothing, as far as the eye can see. 

_Thump._

Something thuds quietly against the kitchen door. Jon jumps and sees Martin do the same, as they both wheel to face it. Martin starts to take a step forward, and Jon squeezes his shoulder hard. 

“Whatever it is, it probably can’t hurt me. Much.” _Unless it’s a hunter,_ he doesn’t say, trying not to remember Basira’s vague, pained description of how she’d last seen Daisy. Martin lets Jon step in front of him, but he grabs a large chef’s knife from the sink and holds it at the ready. 

Carefully, Jon approaches the door, grasps the handle, and opens it. The wind and rain sweep inside immediately, and the bedraggled form that had been trying to shelter beneath the lintel stumbles through with them. 

“Moooohhh!” the calf complains loudly, and runs under the kitchen table. 

*

For all the dark secrets and eldritch knowledge the Beholding gifts its Archivist, it very rarely bestows any _practical_ information. Which is a pity, because Jon could use a crash course in What To Do When There’s A Cow In Your Kitchen right about now. 

The soaked, shivering calf huddles under the table, dripping rainwater on the floor, its stubby legs splayed for balance on the tiles. Every so often it emits a mournful _“moooohhh”_. Martin is sat crosslegged on the floor in front of it, trying to tempt it out with leftover roast potatoes and talking to it in a soft, soothing voice. 

“There,” he tells it, “You’re all right, aren’t you? Yeah, you’re fine. We’re not going to hurt you, are we?” 

The calf huffs suspiciously at Martin’s extended hand, but takes a chunk of potato and chews noisily. Martin smiles. 

“Poor thing,” he says. “You must have been so scared, lost and alone like that.” 

The calf huffs again, and noses Martin’s hand. He gives it another piece of potato, and is allowed to scratch the animal’s ears as it chews.

“I’m not sure roast potatoes are good for cows,” Jon comments. Martin shrugs.

“Well do you have any...I don’t know, cattle feed or whatever? She’ll be fine.” 

Martin scoots backwards, taking the potatoes with him, and holds one out. 

“Come on, girl,” he calls in a gentle, encouraging tone. “Come here.” 

The calf takes a halting step towards him, then another. It - _she,_ Jon supposes - gives a demanding moo, and when Martin doesn’t move, she clatters towards him, hooves clicking on the floor and tail flicking. Martin gives her another piece of potato and pets her as she eats, telling her how pretty she is. The calf eyes Jon askance as he approaches, but eventually lets him stroke her fur, which is wet and tangled. He’s not sure if it’s the calf they saw earlier today, but her ear tags are the same color as the herd they’ve encountered twice now; it seems likely. He meets Martin’s gaze over the creature’s back. 

“What now?” 

“She’s shivering, we need to get her dry. I saw some old towels in the airing cupboard, would you mind grabbing them? We can use some of them to make a bed for her as well.”

A bed?” 

“We can’t put her back outside, she won’t survive the night in this weather. Not on her own.”

He’s right, of course. Jon had been vaguely weighing the idea of trying to find the farm that the calf belongs to, but it’s dark out, and bucketing down. It wouldn’t be any safer for them than for the animal, even if they knew exactly where to look. 

“Right,” he says, and goes to fetch the towels.

Martin takes charge of the situation with practised ease, as if he cares for lost farm animals every day of the week. He towels the calf off until her fur is standing up everywhere, keeping up a constant, soothing murmur as he does. For her part, the animal seems delighted at the attention, huffing and mooing and shaking her head. At Martin’s instruction, Jon warms some milk on the stove until it’s tepid, and mixes in a couple of handfuls of porridge oats; the calf slurps down the concoction greedily. 

“You’re very good at this,” he says, as Martin fills a large bowl with water from the tap. Martin gives him a tight little smile. 

“She’s easy to look after,” he says, then turns to the calf. “No trouble at all, are you?”

As if recognizing a comedic cue, the calf starts to piddle, trickling across the tiled floor.

Martin mops up while Jon removes anything that’s breakable or dangerous to a high shelf. They push the furniture into a corner and make up a nest of towels and blankets near the stove which Martin coaxes the calf towards. He sits there patiently, petting her and talking quietly, until she folds her legs and curls up. Jon watches, proud and awed at Martin's tenacious kindness. It had taken him far too long to appreciate that kindness, how important it was, even when it was directed at him. _Especially_ when it was directed at him, he can admit. He's grown up a lot since then.

“All right,” Martin says at last, climbing to his feet. “I think she’ll be okay here.”

*

They go to bed themselves a little while later; Martin banks the embers in the fireplace, and Jon checks the doors and windows are all secured. They don’t hear any sounds from the kitchen as they head upstairs, which Jon takes as a good sign. Rain is still pattering steadily against the bedroom window, though not as fiercely as it was earlier.

“It seems to be easing off a bit,” he notes as he pulls the buttoned pajama shirt over his head. They’re the same pajamas Martin loaned him that first night they spent in Martin's flat; he probably could have bought his own, but, well, there’s something rather nice about wearing his boyfriend’s oversized clothes. It makes him feel safe, in a thoroughly illogical way. 

“Do you think it’ll be stopped by the morning?” 

“No idea,” Jon admits. “Hopefully it will, and we can get our visitor back where she belongs.”

Martin hums noncommittally at that, pulling a soft, long-sleeved t-shirt over his head. Jon feels a sudden inkling of something wrong; he frowns, trying to think of what to say. He’s not great at this sort of thing, and half the time he’s not even correct about what the problem is. Still. 

“You _do_ know we need to return her, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Martin snaps. “Even if it doesn’t seem she was being taken much care of. Shouldn’t the farmer have done something when the weather got this bad?”

“She’s not a pet. You said yourself, those cows live out here.” That fact doesn’t seem to reassure Martin; his expression goes dark.

“She’s not a _thing_ either, Jon, she's a baby! If she hadn’t found us, she might have died!” His voice is tight and angry, and Jon feels like he’s missing something but he has no idea what. He flails around for what the problem might be. 

“She’s not ours, Martin. She needs to go back to her mother.” 

“Yeah, well, mothers aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, are they?” 

Martin turns on his heel and heads for the bathroom. Jon sighs. 

“Nice job, Sims.”

Several minutes pass and Martin doesn’t return. Jon forces down the urge to go and knock on the door and ask if he’s all right. It’s healthy, he reminds himself, to give people space when they need it. And Martin already said last night he wasn’t ready to talk about this yet. Jon climbs into bed but leaves the light on, and curls up on his side with his back to the door. The bed feels very large and very cold, without someone else in it. 

It’s a while before the door opens and Martin comes in. Jon doesn’t say anything: _give him his space._ The light clicks off, and Jon feels the mattress dip as Martin climbs onto it and settles himself. There’s silence for a minute or two, nothing but the sound of the two of them breathing and the rain against the window, and then:

“Jon?” 

“I’m awake.” Jon turns over and sees Martin looking at him, face pale in the dark. 

“I'm sorry,” Martin says. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just…” He takes a long, shuddering breath.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything.” He reaches for Martin’s hand; his fingers are cold, and Jon clasps them between both his hands, trying to warm them up.

“No, I - I need to. When I was...in the Lonely, deep, I didn’t feel a lot. And now I’m feeling all those things I didn’t before, and it’s good - it’s so good, but also it’s - ” Martin’s voice breaks off with a sharp little laugh. “Well, you have to take the good with the bad, don’t you?”

Jon doesn’t know what to say, so he just pulls Martin into his arms. Martin isn’t crying, though Jon has the feeling that might be because he’s already cried himself out in the bathroom alone, but he clings to Jon in return, arms going around him and holding on. 

“It’s okay,” Martin says, as if Jon was the one who needed to be comforted. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” Jon knows that he’s talking about the Lonely, and his heart hurts at the thought. He knows Martin won’t, of course, because Jon wouldn’t let him, not again. No matter what.

“I love you,” he says fiercely, a talisman against all the fear and grief they can't escape. Martin makes a soft sound and presses his nose into Jon’s hair. They fall asleep like that, in time. 

*

Jon wakes up with sunshine on his face, and Martin’s breath warm on his neck. He lies there for a while, quietly amazed at the fact that he gets to have this. It still doesn’t feel real, at times, as if someone might come along and explain that no, in fact, this isn’t _actually_ his at all. It’s ridiculous, he knows, but it’s been a long time since he imagined he could have something this good. A long time since he dared to hope. He doesn’t think anything could ruin the peace of this moment.

There’s a series of thumps from downstairs, and Martin startles, kneeing Jon in the leg and making him hiss. 

“whs’hppning?” he mumbles, eyes blinking open. 

“I, ah, I think our visitor’s awake.”

Nothing’s broken when they go downstairs, but the calf’s managed to knock over a couple of the chairs and is back under the table again, mooing anxiously at them. She’s also left a neat pile of dung in the middle of the floor. Jon sighs, and fetches the fireplace shovel to scoop it up and take it outside. When he returns, Martin has coaxed the calf out and is looping a length of rope carefully around her neck; she looks up at him with big, soft eyes and nuzzles his hand. 

“All right,” Martin says, “Should we head out then?”

Outside it’s bright and warm, the sky clear and spotted with white clouds. The grass is wet underfoot, and everything feels fresh, as if the rain has washed it all clean. They make their way downhill with the calf trotting easily alongside them; Martin holds her lead, and his free hand finds Jon’s, twining them together.

They spend more than an hour searching for the herd, striking out from the trail in hopes the bad weather hasn’t driven the animals too far. They’re close to giving up and heading to the village for help, when they come around a rise and see the cows, grazing placidly near a large, open-fronted shelter; they knew where to go last night, it seems. An elderly Land Rover is parked by the shelter, and a woman is walking among the herd, checking them over. As they approach, one of the cows gives a loud, plaintive moo and starts lumbering towards them. The calf moos in return, tugging at the restraining rope. 

“Looks like we’ve found mum,” says Martin, and slips the lead off her neck as she wriggles. The calf gallops over to her mother, who immediately begins licking her, huffing happily. The woman hurries over and crouches down to check on the calf as Martin and Jon approach. She stands up to meet them, beaming with relief. 

“I was so worried,” she exclaims. “Coming out here after the rain last night and finding this little one missing. Where did you find her?”

“She found us, actually,” Jon says, and tells her how the calf had turned up at their front door. The woman nods with relief. 

“She’s lucky you found her,” she says. “I owe you two a favor.” 

The woman introduces herself as Jean Addair, shakes their hands with great enthusiasm, and invites them to visit her farm whenever they’d like. She also offers them a lift home in the Land Rover, which they decline. It's a good day for walking. 

The calf is still being aggressively bathed by her mother, but when Martin crouches down she frisks over to him, pushing her head into his hands. 

“Looks like you’ve made a friend for life,” Jean tells him. Martin laughs, and gives the calf’s ears a final scratch. 

*

It’s approaching midday by the time they get home. Jon makes sandwiches while Martin lights the stove and puts the furniture back in order. Martin makes the tea, because he’s still better at it than Jon is, and they eat at the kitchen table with the sun streaming in through the window. Jon watches Martin’s face, the light catching in his hair, his smile as he talks about visiting the farm sometime soon, and thinks that this is what happiness is. Just this. 

“Do you fancy a game of cards?” Martin asks after they’ve finished eating. 

“Oh, I don’t really know any card games,” Jon admits, “Other than poker.” Martin laughs. 

“Poker, eh? Are you a secret card sharp?” 

“Nothing quite so dramatic, I’m afraid. I learned to play at uni, but I was never much good.”

“That sounds like something a card sharp would say,” Martin teases, getting up from his seat. Jon clears the table while Martin fetches a deck of cards from upstairs. 

“All right then,” says Jon when he returns. “What are you teaching me to play?”

“Is gin rummy okay? I used to play it with my mum. She got frustrated a lot, when she was stuck in bed? But she could play gin for hours. And I liked keeping her company, when she'd let me.”

“That sounds good,” Jon says, and Martin gives him a tentative smile. There’s still something aching in his eyes, but they’re not distant or closed off. Not lonely. He takes a deep breath. 

“I think...I’d like to talk about her, a bit,” he says. “Not - not everything, not all at once. But...I’d like to start.”

“Anything you want,” Jon tells him. “I’m here.” He is and he always will be, no matter what. 

“I know you are,” Martin says, his voice warm and certain, and starts to deal the cards. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Just Looking For A Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28530975) by [luftnarp-podfic (secretsofluftnarp)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretsofluftnarp/pseuds/luftnarp-podfic), [secretsofluftnarp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretsofluftnarp/pseuds/secretsofluftnarp)




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